


the art of us

by ailurea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Student Shiro (Voltron), Artist Keith (Voltron), Artist Shiro (Voltron), Dog Walker Shiro (Voltron), Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Teacher Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28899879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurea/pseuds/ailurea
Summary: When the featured artist for the upcoming university art gallery suddenly drops, Keith is left scrambling to find a replacement.Enter his dog-walker, Shiro.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 130
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so excited to share my contribution to the [Sheithmark event](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/sheithmark)! This fic is loosely based on the Hallmark movie of the same name (I wasn’t able to find the movie to watch, so this is a best attempt based on the summary!).
>
>> Dr. Higgins is determined to secure a tenured position at Boston College, and she is counting on curating a big art gallery to do so. But when she loses her showcase artist, she decides to transform her dog walker into the credible artist she needs.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don’t know much about the traditional art industry, and even less about art academia. Please forgive the excessive amount of creative liberty I’ve taken.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Many, many thanks to the amazing [bioplast_hero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioplast_hero) whose lovely art you can see in the fic here and [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/bioplast_hero/status/1352348748010012674) (please give him some love!). It was so much fun throwing around ideas for this together, and I wouldn’t have made it without you and your encouragement! Thank you!
> 
> And to my beta — you are a lifesaver as always. Thank you for helping make this the best it can be!

Keith is halfway down the hall to his office at Altea University when Pidge grabs his arm and drags him into Lance’s instead.

“Please don’t leave me alone with this,” she says as Lance sobs with his face in his desk.

It's too early in the morning for this, but Lance’s energy has no concept of time. Keith closes the door. “What's going on?”

“It’s all ruined!” Lance cries, lifting his head and flinging a stack of papers into the air. “Absolutely ruined!”

It’s the kind of over-the-top dramatic that Keith’s only ever seen on TV, but it somehow feels expected coming from Lance, even though Keith’s only known him a little over a year. He picks up the stapled pages from where they fell to the floor in front of his feet. “You haven’t graded these essays yet.”

“More important things to focus on right now, Keith!” Lance flings himself around in his chair like a top and clutches his hair. “How am I supposed to find a new venue and a new caterer in less than a month? I knew the two-for-one was too good to be true! I'm cursed! The gods have spoken! I'm doomed to never escape from adjunct hell in my entire! Life!”

Pidge gives Keith a plaintive look and whispers, “They called twenty minutes ago. Pipes burst. Tons of water damage.”

Keith winces. Yeah, they'll be out for a while. “Have you started calling the backups?”

“Useless!” Lance grabs onto his desk, stopping his chair mid-rotation. “Every single one!” He glances at his monitor and says, “Well, I've only called two venues and one caterer so far because the rest aren't open yet, but I can tell, they'll be useless. The universe is conspiring against me! Who planned this gallery for the week after Thanksgiving?”

Pidge rubs her forehead. “You did. As I've been trying to tell you, there are hundreds of caterers in the city. You'll be fine. And venues are easy, all you need is wall space to make it work. It's not like you lost your artist or something.”

“Do you know how much time in advance people book venues for weddings?” Lance says. “Venues! Matter!”

“Pidge is right, the main thing you need is wall space, and that's easier to find than... wedding stuff,” Keith says, with all the confidence of someone who's never been to a wedding in his life. “And if that still doesn't pan out, remember Hunk offered part of his makerspace? Just have to let him know early enough to make room.”

He waits while Lance visibly digests the information, and then brightens. “Oh yeah, you're right, I forgot about that! Bless Hunk, that beautiful man.”

“Okay,” Keith says. “So... we're good? You can keep calling people today?”

“You got it!” Lance says, and either mimes wiping or actually wipes away a tear—Keith isn't close enough to tell. “What would I do without you both?”

“Suffer,” Pidge says flatly.

“Rude as always,” Lance says, turning up his nose. “Luckily for you, I am still full of generous spirit. As long as nothing else goes wrong, we will be all okay.”

“We would have been okay anyway,” Pidge says.

Keith’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Lance is going on now about which of the caterers would be best to try first, so Keith glances at his screen just to make sure it’s not an important email or anything, since technically he’s working now.

He sees the sender and the preview message; his blood pressure spikes as he pulls the phone from his pocket to read the full thing.

> **Lotor**  
>  Unfortunately, I will need to withdraw from your gallery. My father has decided to hold a vow renewal ceremony at his villa after all, and has requested my presence earlier than expected. Give my regards to Lance. Best of luck in finding a replacement.

Keith has vivid thoughts of murder.

“Uh, is everything okay over there, because you kind of look like you’re about to laser-eye your phone?” Lance says, then gasps. “Is it our turn to help you through a career crisis?”

Keith opens his mouth to explain, then immediately closes it again.

He can’t tell Lance about this, not when they’ve just averted one crisis. Losing the spotlight artist is so much worse than losing a venue, and Keith doesn’t have any idea who they’d be able to bring in on such short notice. Telling Lance would just throw him into a spiral of anxiety that he doesn't need right now.

“It’s fine,” Keith says, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

“O-kay.” Lance drawls out the word and exchanges a meaningful glance with Pidge. “Well, we're always here for you if you change your mind.”

“Got it,” Keith says. His heart is pounding, and he’s intentionally not looking at Pidge or acknowledging the suspicious squint she’s sending his way.

“Well, then, assuming this venue stuff is going to be totally fine, I think we should be good to go,” Lance says, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll let you know how it’s looking later.”

“Sure.” Keith takes a step back. “So I can go now, right? Crisis averted?”

“Crisis averted!” Lance clicks his tongue and points at him with finger guns. “Catch you later!”

“Later,” Keith says, and tries not to make it look like he’s making an escape.

* * *

The thing about keeping this all a secret from Lance is that it means Keith’s left as the only one who can worry about it—and he’s worrying.

The gallery that Lance is putting on— _From the Heart_ —is mainly a showcase of his students’ work, with one featured professional artist. It’s supposed to represent the culmination of his curatorial skills, his teaching skills, his connections to the professional art world… something like that, anyway.

It’s the stuff Keith doesn’t try to get involved in too much. He loves art, he loves teaching art, and he loves seeing students express themselves through art, but he’s seen intimately what the professional art industry looks like and he really doesn’t want any part of it. The only reason he’s involved in Lance’s mess is because Lance had asked for advice and Keith wasn’t so much of an ass that he’d say no.

(The fact that giving advice had turned into becoming one of Lance’s cheerleaders, Keith blames Pidge for.)

And now… Lotor. This one, Keith acknowledges is his fault. The main thing Lance had asked about was names of artists that Keith thought might be interested in appearing in this kind of gallery, with the understanding that Lance did not have a lot of funding and the showing might be fairly small. Lotor is not Keith’s favorite person, but Allura, the Dean of Altea University’s School of Art, is one of Lotor’s, so Keith figured it was a good chance he would agree. And it would be a good opportunity for Lance if he did—Lotor’s name is fairly well known as a contemporary painter.

He got into Keith’s good graces a little bit by agreeing to come. And now he’s out again. Way out.

And Keith is really struggling to think of anyone else who could fit the bill, who they would be able to bring on in less than a month. He can’t think of a single one.

Well, that’s not right.

There is one, one that he knows would drop everything if he asked. But he doesn’t want to ask her, otherwise he wouldn’t have even gone to Lotor in the first place.

“Um, Keith?”

Keith startles, knocking over the cup by his hand. He rights it quickly, but the paint water is already all over the ground. “Shit.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!” Shiro says, grabbing paper towels from the roll behind Keith and heading for the spill.

Keith pushes him aside gently, takes the paper towels from him, and scrubs at the puddle himself. It’s quick work, but he’s not going to make his student clean up his mess. “Did you need help with something?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Or, well, not me, but Angie could use some help with her apple,” he says, nodding over to where Angie sits in her pale blue cardigan, squinting at the fruit.

Keith winces. “Right, be there in a sec. Thanks.”

“Sure.” Shiro hesitates for a second, then tacks on, “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Keith trails off, distracted for a second by the sincere concern in Shiro’s eyes. Shiro always makes him want to melt. It isn’t fair. Keith turns and throws away the paper towels. “Just tired. I’m fine.”

Shiro looks a bit doubtful, but he says, “Okay,” and makes his way back to his easel.

Keith drinks some water and gets his head back into gear. He only teaches this adult painting class once a week on Wednesday evenings, and he loves spending time with these students. It’s one of the few classes he has with people from all walks of life who just want to learn to express themselves through art. The community center doesn’t pay nearly as well as Altea University, but it doesn’t have any of the politics attached to it either.

There’s a reason he isn’t like Lance.

Keith wipes his hands on his apron and goes to join his students. “How’s it going, Angie?”

His students are developing their still life pieces today, and he resets his focus on their work, making suggestions or gentle corrections as he walks from easel to easel. He lingers a bit next to Shiro and his pineapple, he knows, but he can’t help it. From the beginning, there’s something about Shiro that’s drawn him in.

He does manage to pull himself away eventually, and takes his time checking in with the other students before noticing the time and signaling for everyone to wrap up their work for the day.

“Remember, we’re going to have our winter showcase in January,” Keith says as the students clean up their stations. “If you haven’t yet, email me pictures of your favorite paintings you’ve done. And start thinking about what you want to create for your final piece of the year, it can be anything you want. We’ll start working on it after Thanksgiving.”

He gets noises of acknowledgment in response, and then a steady chorus of “bye, Keith” and “have a good night, Keith”s from his students that he returns automatically as they trickle out of the building.

He wets a rag and starts wiping down the tables as the last of them leave.

Moments later, Shiro joins him.

“Good class today,” Shiro says.

Considering the fact that Shiro snapped him out of an anxious daze this class, Keith would almost suspect that he’s teasing. But it’s Shiro, and he says it with all his usual sincerity that it has Keith flustered.

“Thanks,” he says. “Sorry about the whole… thing.”

“We all have days,” Shiro says lightly.

“Yeah.”

They work together, scrubbing the last of the paint off the tables and collecting stray brushes and palettes to bring to the industrial sinks.

Keith isn’t sure exactly when Shiro started hanging around to help him clean up after class. It was definitely before he started walking Kosmo. Keith doesn’t really complain to his students—or anyone, really—about anything in his personal life, up to and including needing a new dog-walker; it’s his own business, and no one else needs to hear him complain. It was only when they were like this, standing side-by-side over the stream of running water, that Keith found himself spilling out the truth, and Shiro had volunteered to help.

Keith can’t regret it, because Shiro’s pretty much the only dog-walker who doesn’t seem even slightly intimidated by Keith’s strangely-colored, strangely-large probably-Alaskan Malamute. But still, he’s very aware of how he seems to open up to Shiro, even when he shouldn’t.

Like how he’s very aware of how close Shiro is when he leans back so Shiro can reach the brush soap, the metal of his prosthesis glinting. Keith had been worried about it getting wet when Shiro first started helping out, but Shiro shrugged and said it was fine, and Keith trusted him to know what he was doing.

“I don’t want to pry,” Shiro says, studiously rinsing his batch of brushes, “but I’m all ears if there’s something you want to talk about.”

Maybe this is why Keith finds himself spilling to Shiro so often: he just makes it so much easier than anyone else. But just because he makes it easy doesn’t mean he should be burdened by all of Keith’s problems.

“It’s just something at work,” Keith says. “It’ll be okay, I just have to figure it out.” He shuts off his side of the sink. “Your piece is turning out well.”

Shiro smiles at him, bright and warm. “Thanks. I still feel like I kind of made a mistake picking the pineapple. There’s a lot more detail than I thought. But it’s looking a lot better than I expected.”

Keith shakes his head. “C’mon, Shiro, I told you not to doubt yourself.”

“You’re the teacher, it’s your job to say that,” Shiro says.

“I’m the teacher, it’s my job to stop you from doing stuff beyond your ability that’ll make you end up feeling like shit,” Keith says.

Shiro pauses to digest that. “You have a point.”

“I do,” Keith says, patting the brushes dry. “So if I say you can do it, it’s because I think you can do it. And you can do a lot. It’s kind of ridiculous how much you’ve improved since you started.”

“I had a good teacher,” Shiro says, beaming.

“And a lot of your own time working at it,” Keith says.

Shiro hadn’t been a complete beginner when he started in Keith’s class almost two years ago, but he’s developed so much in technique and style since then, in a way that would only be possible if he devoted time outside of class to it. And he must have, because as it stands, Keith would put Shiro on par with some of his university students. Better, maybe.

Even from the start, what he lacked in skill he made up for in creativity and expression. He was never without a story to tell. And that’s the thing you can’t really teach.

Shiro shrugs a little. “You reminded me how much I love to paint.” He gives Keith a sideways smile. “So, good teacher.”

A brush clatters into the sink and Keith scrambles to pick it up again, rinsing it and drying it and avoiding Shiro’s gaze.

The thrilling and unsettling thing about Shiro is the way he can pierce Keith’s heart with a smile and just a few words. It’s something Keith’s never really felt before, or really knows what to do with.

What he does know is that Shiro’s his friend and his student and his dog-walker and he really doesn’t want to mess it up. Any of it.

“So, uh.” Keith sets the brushes aside to finish drying. “You’re still free to get Kosmo tomorrow, yeah?”

“Definitely,” Shiro says, depositing his pile of brushes with Keith’s. “Same time as usual?”

“Yeah.” It’s hard not to notice how close they’re standing right now; Shiro’s heat is making him shiver. Keith forces himself to look up into Shiro’s face. “Thanks, by the way.”

Shiro’s smile is perplexed. “For what?”

“Just… being you.” Keith rubs his fingers together tightly, very aware that those few words have given a lot away.

But Shiro’s smile is warm and easy as always. “I’m here anytime.”

Keith believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

_I would, but I’m already booked._

_I can’t, but good luck!_

_Sorry, I’m not sure who else would be free._

_Have you tried asking your—_

The knock on Keith’s office door distracts him from the slew of rejections in his inbox, which is probably for the best.

He stacks up all the clutter on his desk—pictures of student pieces for the community center showcase that he was trying to arrange—and shoves it aside. “Come in!”

Lance sticks his head in; Keith’s stomach drops.

“How’s my favorite grumpy colleague?” Lance says, swinging his arms out as he steps into the office.

Keith watches as a drop of coffee flies out of his mug and hits the carpet and decides he doesn’t care enough. “Fine, what’s up?”

“Grumpy as always, I see,” Lance says. “All good. Just checking in about our main man Lotor. He was supposed to send me his stuff over the weekend but I haven’t heard from him at all, was wondering if maybe he sent you anything?”

Keith cringes. He knew he’d have to tell Lance about it sooner or later, but it looks like it’s going to be now.

“Okay, don’t panic,” Keith says, “but—“

“Oh my god,” Lance says, the blood draining from his face, “don’t say that if you don’t want me to panic! Why would you say that, Keith, why! Okay, hold on, I need to be lying down for this.”

Keith bites his tongue while Lance rearranges the chairs in Keith’s small office to form a makeshift chair bed and lays across them. “I’m ready.”

Well, if he’s ready.

“Lotor dropped out.”

Lance screeches, flails, and falls off the chairs. “He dropped out? Just completely dropped out? Goodbye, sweet, sweet, tenuration and the ultimate respect of Allura, it was all only ever meant to be a dream. Like Icarus, I have chosen to fly too close to the sun.”

“Look, it’s going to be fine—”

“It is the featured artist, and we are less than a month from opening, in what universe is this going to be fine?” Lance wails from the ground.

Keith definitely should have waited until someone else was around to break the news, or at least tried planning this out better. He has trouble handling Lance on a day-to-day basis sometimes—he has no idea what to do with the over-anxious ball on the ground.

“Look, Lance—Lance.” Keith nudges Lance with his foot until he stops wailing enough to get a word in. “I know other artists. It’s going to be fine. I’ve already started reaching out to people.”

And failed, so far, but Lance doesn’t need to know that much.

“What kind of people?” Lance says. “Good people? How are we going to top Lotor Sincline? Oh god I’m going to have to redo the brochures. Do you know how long I spent moving text around to get his name to look good?”

“Focus,” Keith says. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, it’s probably too late to find someone else who’ll be as recognizable as he is. I’m sorry. It’s too close to the holidays and everyone else is either already going to have galleries lined up or planned vacations.”

“So what are the options?” Lance says. “I already said it wasn’t going to be a full student showcase, so I’ve already promised everyone we’d be featuring a professional artist. I can’t just not have an artist!”

“I didn’t say that,” Keith says. “I’m just saying that it might have to be a more unknown artist.”

Lance considers it from his starfish position on the ground. “So frame it like a discovery thing? That could work. People are always into the hidden gem stuff.”

“Uh, yeah.” Keith says. “Something like that. I’ll put together samples for you and you can see if there’s anything you like.”

“But what would we do if—whoa!”

Keith watches in slow motion as Lance tries to haul himself up and grabs papers from Keith’s desk instead of the actual corner of it; Lance falls back on his ass, papers in hand.

“Oh hey, what are these?” Lance says.

Keith looks over the edge of the desk. Lance had grabbed onto the stack of community center students’ pieces and happened to grab some of Shiro’s, sitting on top—Shiro, as usual, had submitted a few, asking Keith to use whichever one he liked best. “That’s—”

“Wow, is this from one of your unknown artists?” Lance says, peering at it as he climbs to his feet. “It looks amazing. I love the use of color. I can’t really see the brushstrokes on this printout but the work looks really clean. Are they an Altea grad?”

“Uh—”

Lance flips to the next few pieces of Shiro’s art. “Really distinct style, too.” He hums over the pages a bit more before dropping them back onto the desk. “All right, you’ve convinced me. If they’re producing art like this, I don’t care about their name. And, you know, being partially a student showcase, it might be really cool to feature someone close to home.”

“Right,” Keith says, slowly reaching out for Shiro’s pieces.

“Let me know if they’re available!” Lance says, tapping the printouts before sliding them over to Keith. “Totally different direction from Lotor, but I think their style could really end up working well for it! I’m already having some ideas of how to change up the space…” He’s wandering out the door as he’s speaking. “Keep me posted!”

“Sure,” Keith says.

Then Lance is gone.

That could have gone worse, Keith decides, looking at the photos strewn across his desk.

Lance liked the work, and he’s open to having someone who isn’t as star-studded as Lotor is, which could make it a lot easier to find someone. That’s good. But the answer sitting right in front of him—the one Lance already gave tacit approval to—isn’t… really an answer. Because not only is Shiro not star-studded, he’s not from any kind of accredited art program.

That doesn’t mean a thing about his art, of course, Keith reflects, holding up the painting of the little boy looking through a telescope. Sure, you need skill to create a piece of art, but the most important element is heart. Even the most technically strong artists can fail in this industry if they don’t have anything to say.

And Shiro is full of stories to tell.

If it were Keith’s own gallery, he’d take Shiro in a heartbeat—but it isn’t. He has to consider what Lance wants, and what Lance wants is someone with credentials, someone who would mean something to all the critics and colleagues (and crushes) who would be coming to the event.

But even if Shiro’s resume doesn’t mean anything, Shiro does. His work does.

And Lance agreed.

Art degree or not, Shiro may just be the right person for the job.

* * *

“I need you to take my studio art class in thirty minutes,” Keith says as he steps into Lance’s office. “In Juni 605. It’s just the last half.”

“Uh, why?” Lance says.

“Do you want me to get you an artist or not?”

Lance holds his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right, I’ll do it, yeesh. Is everything so mysterious with you?”

“Yes,” Keith says, and leaves to teach his class.

He spent some time this morning quickly redesigning his lecture to be shorter, and he wraps it up just as Lance enters the classroom. Keith leaves them time to get started on their assignment under Lance’s supervision; meanwhile, Keith rushes to his bike and tries to get back to his house before Shiro does.

Kosmo demands walks on a very consistent basis, so on afternoons where Keith is packed with classes, he has Shiro pick him up and take him around before Kosmo gets restless and plans his own escape. He thinks he’s timed it about right, but he pedals quickly, just to be safe.

The yard is empty when Keith gets back. He’s made it.

He dashes inside to splash water on his face, wiping away the sweat from his ride home, and when Shiro and Kosmo still haven’t returned, he sits at the kitchen table with his laptop and tries to look inconspicuous.

It’s another five minutes before he hears Kosmo bounding up the porch and barking and Shiro laughing and saying, “Hey, what’s gotten into you?”

Keith all but runs to the door and pulls it open.

Kosmo barks delightedly and goes in for a dog-hug that sends them both sprawling to the ground.

“Good to see you too,” Keith says, scratching him all over. He looks up at Shiro, who’s smiling at them from the doorstep.

“Hey, Keith,” he says, and Keith loves how his name sounds meltingly warm and sweet in Shiro’s voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“Got out a little early,” Keith says. He pats Kosmo’s flank and motions him off. Kosmo, sensing that play time is over, boofs once and patters away.

Shiro extends a hand to help him up; Keith doesn’t need the help, but he takes it anyway, and maybe holds onto it for a little too long before he realizes what he’s doing and steps back.

“Um, do you want some water or something?” he says, tucking his hands behind his back.

“Water would be great,” Shiro says, a little exhaustion seeping into his voice. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow. Keith has never felt so warm looking at someone else. “I have a bottle, if you don’t mind that I refill…?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Keith says, a little croakily. And then, noticing that Shiro’s standing on the threshold with the bottle, “You can come in if you want.”

“Thanks.” Shiro kicks off his shoes and shuts the door behind him. “Kosmo really wanted to play today. I think we did twenty laps around the park.”

“I’m impressed you can keep up with him,” Keith says, leading Shiro to the kitchen. “Sometimes I just lie down in the grass. He’ll come get you when he’s ready.”

“I don’t mind having a running partner every now and then,” Shiro says, grinning. “I’m not used to having to work so hard to keep up.”

Keith laughs and takes the bottle from Shiro. “Well, he’s never going to want to go with another walker at this rate. Keep it up and he might even start liking you more than me.”

“Sounds like good news to me,” Shiro says. “I mean, not the—I’m sure he won’t like me more than you. I just mean, I really like Kosmo. And would be happy walking him, for as long as you both will have me.”

“Well, we both like you too,” Keith says, and avoids Shiro’s gaze as he grabs his pitcher and refills Shiro’s bottle. Shiro looks around, shifting his feet, like he’s trying to think of something to say. He glances toward the door.

“Hey,” Keith says, setting down the pitcher. “Could I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, what’s up?” Shiro says without missing a beat.

“I was looking through the art you sent—”

“Oh no, do you think they’re too boring?” Shiro says. “I know they’re not the most interesting, compositionally; I could look through some of the other ones—“

“No, I love them,” Keith says. “Really. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. You know I also teach at Altea University? There’s a professor there putting together a winter gallery that I’m helping out with. We wanted to invite you to join.”

Shiro blinks at him for a few long seconds, a bemused smile on his face. “A gallery at the university? Me?”

Keith bites his cheek to keep from laughing, not because he thinks it’s particularly funny, but because Shiro’s expression is too cute. “Yeah. You. I mean, you already know how much I love your art, but don’t take it from just me. My colleague who’s running the showcase saw the pieces you sent me and he’s really interested in having you join.”

“But I’m not a student,” Shiro says. “Or an artist. Or anything.”

“Hey.” Keith whaps him gently on the arm with the back of his fingers. “You’re putting your brush to canvas. I don’t want to hear you say you’re not an artist.”

“I know, I know,” Shiro says, looking abashed. “But you know what I mean. I’m not an—an _artist_ artist. The kind that does galleries and auctions and things like that. I’m just doing it for fun. For me.”

Keith feels like he should have expected this reluctance from Shiro; he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it. It’s the same reaction Keith would have had.

But he has to try to make this work.

“Doing this doesn’t make it any less for you,” Keith says. “It’s just showing the pieces that you already have to a wider audience. Like the community center exhibit, just a slightly larger scale.”

Shiro doesn’t look entirely convinced. “It’s held by the University, right? Won’t there be critics and curators and… I don’t even know who else? I’m really not looking to get involved in the commercial side of art.”

“You don’t have to pay attention to any of them,” Keith says, even though he suspects Shiro might be too polite to do that. “I can be there with you to chase them off.”

Shiro laughs a little at that. “Okay, it might be worth it to see that.”

“The theme is _From the Heart_ ,” Keith says. “I know you have a bunch of pieces that could work with that. We can look through your past stuff together, see which ones you like that would work. We wouldn’t be asking you to make anything new if you didn’t want to.”

“How big is the gallery?” Shiro says. “In terms of artists?”

“Five or six.” Keith sees the wide-eyed expression on Shiro’s face and quickly adds, “Shiro, remember what I said? You know I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think it was a good opportunity. Your art would be perfect for this. And I’ll help you put together the whole collection, whatever you need.”

“It’s… it’s kind of a lot,” Shiro says, turning his water bottle around in his hands. He looks up at Keith. “I want to take some time to think about it, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” Keith says, heart sinking. It’s not a _no_ , but it’s not even close to a yes, either. “You have my number, you can text me whenever. Or if you have more questions.”

Shiro smiles lightly. “Thanks.” He turns the water bottle around in his hands again. “Um, I should probably be heading out now.”

“Right, yeah, sorry for keeping you.” Keith says, pushing away from the counter to lead him back to the door.

“It’s fine,” Shiro says. “And thank you for inviting me, really. It’s just—I have to think about it.”

“I get it,” Keith says. “Whatever you decide, we’re good, okay? So don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.” Shiro says with a small smile. He pulls his shoes back on and stands. “Bye, Kosmo!”

Kosmo _boofs_ from inside the house, and Shiro’s smile widens.

“I’ll talk to you later, Keith,” he says softly, and then he’s jogging off the steps. Keith watches as he jogs down the block, and Shiro gives him a little wave before he turns the corner and disappears.

Keith sighs, shoulders slumping, and trudges back inside the house.

That all could have gone a lot better.

Keith tries not to worry too much about it as he pours Kosmo’s dinner into his bowl and wanders around the kitchen making his own. Shiro hasn’t said anything either way; there’s no point in worrying about it now.

But the thought nags at him—if Shiro ends up deciding not to go through with it, then who else could he even try? Most of the artists he knew had already turned him down. None of his other students at the community center would meet the bar. And he doesn’t have a lot of hope for cold-calling at this late stage.

He scrolls through his phone at dinner, thumb hovering over the one contact he has yet to reach out to. The one he’s been avoiding reaching out to.

 _Mom_.

Krolia’s a star in the art world, known for her bold strokes and bolder messages. She’s the reason he was interested in art in the first place—and also the reason he’s not interested in the professional industry.

He’s seen the dark side of it—the backchannel deals, the gossip, the backstabbing, the way connections mean more than anything else, the way his mom felt she had to compromise on her values so that they could get by.

It had taken a long time for her to establish herself enough so that she could put all her effort toward work born from her own interests, instead of someone else’s.

Not everyone can get there, Keith knows.

He probably could, if he wanted to, just from his connection to her, but the thought of joining that broken system makes his skin crawl.

He fell in love with art in the act of putting paint to paper next to his mom, building worlds together with brushes and fingertips and pigment, and that’s the feeling that he wants to pass down—that’s why he’s focused on teaching the practical classes at the community center and the university, and why he usually doesn’t get involved in the events like the galleries. That’s why he kept his dad’s last name, and doesn’t tell anyone about his connection to Krolia.

If it weren’t for Lance, he’d be avoiding all the art politics entirely.

But right now, he has a responsibility to Lance, so if it comes down to it, he’ll do it.

His finger hovers over the call button, and then he shuts off his phone and sets it phone aside.

Tomorrow.

If Shiro doesn’t message him by tomorrow, he’ll reach out to his mom. Ask for help. If he’s lucky, she’ll know someone, and they could try to avoid revealing the direct connection. If he’s not…

He’ll figure it out.

But first, he’s going to need to do something so he doesn’t stare at his phone the rest of the night.

He puts it away and reads a book, and then does his nighttime stretching routine, and then goes to the bathroom and gets ready for bed, Kosmo watching from outside the door like he always does.

“Go brush your teeth,” Keith says around his toothbrush, and Kosmo slinks off to gnaw on his bone.

He strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed, setting his phone on the charger. The screen lights up, showing he has a message.

> **Shiro**  
>  I’ll do it.


	3. Chapter 3

Keith knows when Shiro’s arrived by the sounds of Kosmo breaking through the side gate to greet him. Loudly.

He rushes to the front door. “Kosmo, d—”

He breaks off when he sees Shiro squatting on the porch, Kosmo a giant baby in his arms.

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says, an edge of embarrassment in his laugh. Keith doesn't know why. Kosmo is Keith’s dog. And Shiro is very strong. “He does this a lot.”

“You're spoiling him,” Keith croaks.

“He deserves it, don't you boy?” Shiro says, bouncing him.

Kosmo’s tongue lolls out of his cheerfully wide mouth.

Keith's heart can't handle this. He steps back inside the house. “Take your time. I'll just be in here.”

Shiro laughs. “All right, all right.” Keith hears him guide Kosmo around to the backyard and shut the side gate before he joins Keith inside the house. “I could take Kosmo out after this, if you want.”

“We went two miles an hour ago,” Keith says. “He’s just used to playing when he sees you, I guess. You can ignore him.”

“Sure,” Shiro says, smiling. “Or I could play with him after?”

“I mean, I won’t stop you,” Keith says, feeling the smile on his own face, “but I don’t want to take up more of your time. Thank you for coming by on the weekend, by the way.”

“Yeah, of course.” Shiro sits down next to him at the kitchen table. “So, um, how should we do this?”

“I printed out all the pictures you sent me,” Keith says, pulling out the folder. “I was thinking we could go through them together, and we could talk through your thoughts on including them?”

“That sounds good,” Shiro says, wringing his hands over the table. “I included some I’m not really sure about, but… I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me what you think. Are you sure I’m cut out for this?”

“Hey, there’s nothing to be worried about.” Keith feels an urge to put his hand over Shiro’s, but he holds himself back. “Your work is amazing. And it’s not just me saying that. I showed your portfolio to Lance, he’s the guy running the gallery. He says that he’ll be excited for anything that you want to submit.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, “That helps. A little. I just don’t want to mess things up for you.”

“You won’t.” Keith opens the folder. It might help Shiro relax more if they just dive in. “There are a lot of pieces in here I don’t remember seeing from class. They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Shiro smiles, ducking his head. “I wanted to show you, but… I guess I didn’t really have an excuse to. I’m glad I have the chance to now, though.”

“Are all your favorites in here?”

Shiro hesitates. “Most of them. Some of them… I guess all my art is personal, but especially those.”

“That’s okay,” Keith says. “I was just curious.”

“Maybe I can show you,” Shiro says. “Later. If you want.”

Keith smiles. “I’d like that.”

The silence between them is comfortable. Then Keith realizes he’s been gazing at Shiro a little too long, and snaps his attention back to the papers. “Um, so how about we start with your favorites here, and go from there?”

“Sure, yeah.” Shiro takes the pile from Keith and flips through the pages, pulling out a few from the middle. “So, first, these.”

Keith looks at the first one. On the canvas is an inky, oil-slick night sky and stars, with dark vignetted edges, like the image is being seen through a telescope. In the center is a translucent figure in a flowing pale green dress, dancing. Stars shine through their shape, lines connecting them into a constellation, but Keith can’t tell immediately which one.

“These are repaintings of some of my art from when I was in kindergarten,” Shiro says. “If you can call fingerpainting art.”

“It’s art,” Keith says without looking up. He’s turned to the next piece. It’s in a similar style, but the figure is of a drummer. “What constellations are these?”

“Not any you’d recognize,” Shiro says, and this time Keith looks up. Shiro’s smile is nostalgic. “When I was little, I loved everything about space. I’d spend hours at night just looking through my telescope. My family would be there with me, and we’d make up constellations and the stories about them. Heroes, tricksters, star-crossed lovers. These were some of my favorites.”

“They’re gorgeous,” Keith says. “Now I kind of want to see your fingerpaintings.”

“I’m pretty sure my moms still have all of them,” Shiro says, grinning. “I was so obsessed with space. Wanted to be an astronaut and everything. They gave me the telescope after I got tired of looking through the pictures in my books. We’d paint together and all I would do were pages and pages of stars and planets.”

“You painted with them?”

“They were both artists,” Shiro says. “Not by trade, but they both enjoyed painting, and I liked doing it with them. My brother, too. I grew out of it at some point, the same way I grew out of space. But these stories meant so much to me growing up, so I figured… _From the Heart_ , right?”

“I like it,” Keith says, laying out the pieces side-by-side. “Were you thinking you want to include all of them?”

“It might be too much,” Shiro says, scratching his head. “But I did see that people do triptychs? So maybe a small set like that could work?”

“That could definitely work,” Keith says. “What else were you thinking of?”

“This is kind of also a set,” Shiro says, flipping through pages, “but… here.”

This canvas is bright compared to the first set, with colors evoking sunshine and brightness. On the foreground are two figures standing together, portrait-close, with light skin and dark features. One has the other’s hand raised and is kissing the back of it. Their features are blended and soft—soft enough that Keith doesn’t think he would recognize them, but not so soft that he can’t recognize the adoration on their faces.

“My moms,” Shiro says, something sweet and warm in his smile. “I’ve never met two people more in love.”

“I can tell,” Keith says softly.

The next one Shiro hands him has more muted, warm tones. A figure in a dark tank top is standing facing the viewer, but looking off to the side, out the window. There are dark lines on their shoulder—a tattoo?—but Keith can’t tell the shape. This figure is painted closer than Shiro’s moms, but somehow there’s a greater distance—their features are blurred enough that Keith can’t read their expression at all.

“My brother,” Shiro says. “We didn’t always get along, especially as teenagers. I thought he was loud and he thought I was stuffy. I think we were both right. We’ve found ways to connect better, as adults.”

“You said he painted too?”

“Still does,” Shiro says. “But on people, mainly. He’s a tattoo artist.”

“Oh, cool.” Keith catches himself looking Shiro over, seeing if he can guess if Shiro’s brother ever practiced on him, and looks away quickly. “So, these two?”

“One more.”

This one isn’t just muted, it’s dark. The figure is cast in shadow, their features not only blurred but unseen. The suit, a dark olive-black; the background, an even darker one; the skin and hair muted brown. But despite the overall severity of the piece, the figure is gently cradling a rose petal.

“I was engaged, before,” Shiro says, very quietly. “It was… complicated.”

Keith approaches cautiously. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shiro shrugs, but with a forced casualness to the movement. “Not much to talk about. Turned out we had different goals in life.” He hesitates. “Well, I say that, but I think we both knew it pretty early on. We just thought we’d be able to work through it together. In the end, it wasn’t a good decision for either of us.”

The silence this time is heavy.

“Too depressing?” Shiro says, with forced brightness.

“It’s not,” Keith says. “It makes sense. These all meant something to you, something important. In your childhood,” he says, tapping the constellation paintings, “and in your adult life,” he says, gesturing to the portraits laid out across the table. “It’s what you think of when you think of your heart.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Yes, exactly. That’s why, when you told me about the theme, these pieces called to me the most. But I just feel like there’s something missing. and even with the rest of these—” he brandishes the rest of stack, “—I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like anything fits.”

“Can I see those?”

Shiro hands him the papers, and Keith flips through them slowly, mentally cataloguing the themes of each. Shiro’s right, there doesn’t seem to be anything that jumps out at him, but maybe not for any of the reasons that Shiro thinks.

“What about now?” Keith says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you think about expressing what’s inside your heart right now, what does that look like?”

Shiro looks flustered at that. “I haven’t really thought about that.”

“I think you should,” Keith says. “Because these pieces, right now, tell a story about what made you who you are today, but nothing tells us who you _are_ today, or what’s in your heart. I know it might be a new piece, but… I think that’s what you’re missing to help tie it all together.”

Shiro is quiet for a minute, staring down at the pieces on the table. Eventually, he says, “What if I don’t know the answer to that?”

This time, Keith touches his hand. “The best part about art is that it can help you figure it out.”

* * *

It’s the Wednesday evening adult painting class at the community center, and Shiro is being… weird.

Keith makes his rounds as usual, looking over his students’ canvases, answering any questions that came up in between his check-ins or making suggestions based on what he sees and what he knows they’re going for. When he gets to Shiro, though, there isn’t much to say, because Shiro doesn’t seem to be doing anything.

Anything that he’s willing to show Keith, anyway.

Because Shiro’s pineapple doesn’t change very much—if at all—between the times Keith comes to check on him, and, when Keith isn’t there, he notices Shiro either zoning out or working in his sketchbook instead, which he closes and tucks under his chair whenever Keith walks by.

It’s weird.

Keith half-expects him to run out the door after class is over, but Shiro still stays afterward to help clean up.

“Slow class today?” Keith says as they take the brushes over to the sink. Shiro was quiet as they cleaned the tables, and he looked like he was thinking hard about something.

Shiro’s gaze darts to him. “Ah yeah, sorry, I was a bit distracted today, huh?”

Keith shrugs. “That was me last week, right? Happens to all of us.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. relaxing a bit. “I’m just… thinking through ideas for the last piece, that we were talking about. The _now_ thing. I haven’t figured out what I want to do yet, exactly.”

“I can help take a look—”

“No,” Shiro says, too quickly, then grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that. Just. It feels really personal, to think about… love, for me, right now. I mean, it feels personal just saying it. I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable showing it in public. I don’t know if I feel comfortable showing any of it.”

Keith realizes too late where this is going.

“All the pieces before… I made them for me, you know?” Shiro says. “I never really planned to show them off anywhere except maybe the family group chat. And so thinking of this one, and how I’m working on it to show off to other people… knowing that the point of it is to show off to other people?” He turns off the sink. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“That’s not all there is to a gallery,” Keith says. “You said you liked telling stories since you were young, right? I can tell. All your art tells a story, about you. About how you see the world. And that’s the thing about art, in the hands of someone who knows how to tell a story with it. If we each painted this room, our pieces would end up totally different: The color, the lighting, the details—none of it would be the same. And that’s because the experiences and emotions we associate with this space, and the ways we translate and express that with brushes and paint are different. So when you share a piece of art with someone else, it’s not… you’re not saying, _hey, look at me_. You’re inviting people to see the world in a different way. The way you see it.”

“Huh.” Shiro looks at him, soft and considering, and Keith realizes how much he just talked.

“Sorry,” he says, flustered, and hastily starts drying brushes. “I just—”

“No, don’t apologize.” Shiro grabs his shoulder lightly, and Keith turns to look at his hand, and then Shiro’s face. “I think… I think I needed to hear that. Thank you. I think I spent too much time thinking about what other people would like. What they might want to see.”

“The truth is, you’re not going to make art that everyone will like,” Keith says. “You’re not even going to make art that everyone will understand. Some people get really hung up on that, but it’s a losing battle. The most important part is creating something that means something to you, and being true to your personal values. That’s what I’ve always believed, anyway, and try to teach.”

“That’s one of the things I love most about you,” Shiro says. “Your teaching. About your teaching, I mean. My moms were the ones who suggested I try painting again, actually. They thought it would help. We found classes to try all over the city, and a lot of them went really went in-depth technically, which was good. But you… your class was the first one that made me really want to paint again.”

 _Oh_.

Keith puts down the towel, and doesn’t know what to say. He hears kind words from his students all the time, and tries to take them with grace, but this heartfelt sincerity—and from Shiro, of all people—makes him speechless. “I—thank you,” he manages.

“Hey, I’m the one thanking you,” Shiro says with a light laugh. He steps closer. “You saved me, in so many ways. And I guess… I’ve been thinking about it recently. And I really wanted you to know that you’re important to me.”

The weight of Shiro’s full attention is a lot to bear, and Keith swallows and tries to find at least a few more words. “I don’t… take compliments well.”

“I can see that,” Shiro says lightly. He moves, as if to step back, and Keith grabs his arm.

“I appreciate it, though,” he says, determined that Shiro know that much, at least. “And I know we’ve been more… professional,” he says, unable to think of a better word for it, “but, if it’s okay with you, I’d want to call you a friend.”

“That’s okay with me,” Shiro says. He hesitates, then says, “Do friends hug?”

Keith steps closer in response, and gets Shiro’s arms wrapped around him. He’s exactly as good of a hugger as Keith thought he was. Keith melts into it, hugging Shiro back.

“I’m glad I met you, Keith,” Shiro says.

Keith resists the urge to squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I met you, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

He gets a call from Shiro that weekend.

“It’s going kind of slow, but I think I have an idea I’m ready to commit to,” Shiro says. “If you have time, would you come over? I could use the moral support.”

To be honest, all Shiro had to say was _come over_.

Keith takes Kosmo on an especially long walk and makes sure he has enough food for the rest of the day before stuffing his backpack with his laptop, sketchbook, and art pouch, jumping on his bike, and heading to the address Shiro gave him. It’s not very far from Keith’s place; that makes sense, given how Shiro seems to always run to Keith’s. He probably wouldn’t do that if he lived far away: Kosmo is more than enough daily exercise.

He ends up in front of a quiet apartment building on the corner of a block of houses, with a weather-worn tan stucco exterior and a rusted metal call box by the door. Keith carefully types the apartment number into the call box and waits.

“Hello?” Shiro says, voice tinny through the speakers.

“Hey Shiro, it’s Keith.”

“Hey,” Shiro says, voice audibly warmer. “Hold on a sec, I’ll unlock the door. Take the stairs on the right.”

The lock on the door clicks open. Keith lets himself in and climbs the stairs to the second floor, scanning the numbers on the doors for 201.

He’s barely knocked on the door when Shiro opens it.

“Hey,” Shiro says, bright-eyed. He opens the door wider with one hand, and wipes the other on his black apron. “Hey, I’m glad you found it okay, come in. And sorry for the mess.”

Keith doesn’t really see much of a mess when he steps in, but he doesn’t comment on it. It’s not that messy, in his opinion, but it’s definitely lived-in. The dining table looks like it’s being used for anything but dining, papers spread all over it. There’s a laptop sitting open on the coffee table, next to an open notebook and pens. There’s an easel by the window, angled so that Keith can’t see it.

“Thanks for coming over,” Shiro says. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I’m good for now, thanks.” Keith says, tucking his shoes in the corner next to Shiro’s. He stands and nods over to the easel. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, actually,” Shiro says. “A lot better than I thought it would be.”

“Do I get to see it?”

“Hm… eventually,” Shiro says, and sticks his tongue out in a bout of playfulness that makes Keith’s heart skip a beat.

He walks deeper into the apartment, settling into the couch facing the back of the easel and raising his eyebrows at Shiro. “I’ll just cheer you on from over here, then.”

Shiro laughs, a little embarrassed. “If that’s okay with you. I know it’s a little weird, asking you to come over here when I won’t even show you what it is I’m working on.”

Keith waves him off. “Don’t worry about it. I know sometimes it helps to just have someone around and feel like you’re in the studio.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Something like that.”

Shiro gets back to work behind his easel, and Keith pulls out his sketchbook and charcoals.

Keith’s never drawn Shiro before.

He won’t lie and say he’s never wanted to. Lately, when he sits down to sketch, Shiro’s face is the first image that appears in his mind. But he’s resisted, because, well—he wants to get it right.

He doesn’t trust himself to remember all the details of Shiro, the nuances he can see now, in the afternoon sun: the depth of his brow, the turn of his nose, the slope of his jaw, the little dimple in his cheek when he smiles. Keith’s never had the opportunity—or taken the opportunity—to study him like this, and so his imagination could only ever give him his impression of Shiro.

Now, he can have it all.

He tries not to be too obvious about his staring as he works on his studies, but he’s sure Shiro will forgive him—more than once, he catches Shiro looking at him, too. Whenever it happens, Shiro flushes and quickly gets back to his own work.

Keith thinks his own reaction is very similar.

He keeps at it—sketching and studying and sketching and studying—until he realizes that it’s getting harder to see the marks on his paper. Outside the window, the sun is setting over the city.

“Mind if I turn on a light?” he says.

Shiro glances at him, startled, then looks out the window himself. “Oh geez, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was. Let me—“ He sets down his brush and palette—blacks and blues and reds, Keith notes—and wipes his hands on his apron. “Are you hungry?” he says, walking past Keith to the far wall and flipping on the light switch. “It’ll take a bit to get cooking but we could order takeout. There’s a good Thai place just down the block.”

Keith should go back home at some point, he thinks, but in the face of Shiro’s earnestness, all he can say is, “Okay.”

Shiro calls in their order, and, ten minutes later, Keith’s putting on his coat to go out with Shiro to pick up their food.

“So what were you working on in there?” Shiro says once they’re out on the street. It’s cold enough outside that his breath makes little puffs in the air.

“Secret,” Keith says, and smiles at Shiro’s expression. “Hey, if you can have secrets, I can, too.”

“Fine, I guess I set myself up for that one,” Shiro says. “You know, I was thinking… I don’t think I’ve seen much of your art. Or your recent art, at least. I know you have that portfolio website, but it hasn’t been updated in a while.”

Oh right, that. “I kind of stopped using that after I got my teaching positions,” Keith says. “Like a resume. You only update it when you need a job, right?”

“You should always keep it up to date, just in case,” Shiro says, as if automatically, then pauses to consider. “But you’re right, if you’re happy where you are, it doesn’t really matter as much. You’re not looking for… you know, galleries? Things like that?”

“I’m happy teaching,” Keith says. “All that other stuff isn’t really for me.”

Shiro looks at him with some amusement. “What was all that you were telling me about art as a way of sharing your voice with the world?”

“Hey, I stand by that,” Keith says. “I just have a very private voice. I know it’s ironic, since I convinced you to join and everything, but… I think you have something really special. And as a teacher and an artist, I’d be making a mistake if I didn’t encourage you to share that.”

Shiro reaches for his hand, and Keith, startles, lets him take it.

“For what it’s worth,” Shiro says, linking their fingers together. “I think you have something really special, too.”

* * *

Outside, the windows are icing over, but Keith feels warmer than he ever has in his life.

After returning to the apartment with the food, they didn’t end up getting any more artwork done, but they did sit at the table under Shiro’s dim kitchen lighting and talk until it was well and truly night, and Keith reluctantly pulled himself away to head home before Kosmo decided to embark on a one-dog search and rescue mission.

Keith hasn’t been a date, ever, so he doesn’t have a frame of reference. But the way Shiro didn’t let go of his hand even after they got back to the apartment, or the way they sat next to each other at the table, sides pressed together and talking in low voices even though they were the only ones there—that definitely felt like something to him.

And then when he was leaving, and Shiro walked him out to his bike and Keith thought, for a heart-stopping second, that they were going to kiss—

Shiro hugged him, instead. But somehow Keith thought the closeness of Shiro’s breath by his ear when he said “good night” felt even better than a kiss.

“Whoa, what’s gotten into you?” Lance says, disturbing Keith’s otherwise perfectly calm Monday afternoon. “You’re all… floaty.”

“I’m not,” Keith says, but reluctantly he has to admit Lance picked a good adjective. “What do you want? Don’t you have class right now?”

“In a minute,” Lance says. “I just wanted to let you know that while we were working on bios today, Pidge told me about Shiro. So, you know, you don’t have to worry about keeping the secret anymore.”

Keith tenses. “What secret?”

Lance rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man, the secret. It’s okay. I mean, I understand why you were worried about telling me, I guess, ‘cause, y’know, nontraditional background and all. And I do have high standards.”

Keith relaxes again. Lance must have finally looked up Shiro’s credentials—or lack thereof. Keith knew it would have to happen sooner or later, and he’d been worried about it, but Lance is taking it a lot better than expected.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Keith says. “I knew he was a good call, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be on board with everything.”

“On board?” Lance says. “I am one hundred percent ready to sail this ship! Reclusive ex-CTO emerges in the public eye as reclusive wonder artist—through my gallery? It’s an even better story than Lotor!”

Wait.

“What?” Keith says.

“Oops, gotta get to class now,” Lance says, turning off the alarm on his watch. “We’re all good, and I forgive you for your deceit! Catch you later!”

“Lance—”

And he’s gone. The one time that Keith actually wants him to talk more. What the hell was he even talking about?

He remembers a vague mention of Pidge, so he sends a quick message asking her what she told Lance. He doesn’t get a response until after his last class of the day, and all it says in Pidge’s message is _dude_ and a link to a Wikipedia article.

The article has Shiro’s face front and center, but everything Keith’s reading about Takashi Shirogane, M.S. in Biomedical Engineering at 21, CTO of ATLAS Biotechnologies at 26, resigned and current activities unknown at 32—none of it feels like the Shiro Keith knows today.

It nags at him as he bikes home. He has to talk to Shiro about it, as soon as possible, figure out what to say, and then call Lance and fix this before it all goes sideways.

When he gets back to his house, Shiro is sitting on the front steps.

It might just be a coincidence, that Shiro decided to stay after dropping Kosmo off today. It might just be that he couldn’t wait to see Keith again.

But then Shiro looks up, his expression tense, and Keith knows it’s not.

“Shiro?” Keith says, stepping up the porch. “What’s wrong?”

Shiro wordlessly hands him his phone. Keith looks at the screen. It’s the webpage for Lance’s gallery opening, complete with Shiro’s Wikipedia photo and a short blurb, presumably written by Lance.

> _**Featured Artist: Takashi Shirogane** _
> 
> _A rising star in the world of biotechnology, Takashi Shirogane made waves when he stepped down from his role leading cutting-edge developments as CTO of ATLAS Labs. Since then, he’s been honing a different craft entirely—and we can’t wait to show you his unique vision. Join us for his debut painting exhibition._

“I swear I didn’t know,” Keith says, after spending much longer than he needed to staring at the phone. He looks up at Shiro. His expression is unreadable. “Lance mentioned something to me a few hours ago, I didn’t even know what he was talking about until Pidge explained.”

Shiro looks off to the side. “Pidge. Pidge Holt?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, wanting badly to ask, but knowing now isn’t the time.

Shiro’s quiet for a few seconds longer, then he nods. “Okay. What about the other part?”

“The other part?” Keith says, looking at the phone again.

“Featured artist.”

Right. That. Keith swallows hard. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“How can this not change anything?” Shiro says, gesturing at the phone. “Does everyone think I’m—what, training or something? Dedicating my life to becoming a professional artist, now that I’m not a business professional? Because I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“I know,” Keith says. “I know that. Lance just—he took this story and ran with it, I didn’t know he’d try to spin it like that. I swear, I was about to call you so we could figure this out.”

“Even without the story,” Shiro says. “Even if he didn’t find out about my history. Was I still going to be the featured artist? Because I looked at the other artist profiles. They’re all students at Altea University. I’m the only one who’s not.”

“You were,” Keith says. “But Shiro, even though he ended up doing this—” Keith waves the phone, “—Lance wanted you from the start. We both did. This is him selling it, but it doesn’t have anything to do with why we asked. Your art speaks for itself.”

Shiro shakes his head. “There’s nothing special about me. I’m just like any of the other students. I’m still learning.”

“And you’ll always still be learning,” Keith says. “We all are. We never stop. What you have is confidence in your voice, and in the stories you’re telling.”

“I don’t have that,” Shiro says, quietly. “I don’t have either of those. Keith… I don’t know who you think I am, but it’s not that.”

“It’s not what?” Keith says.

“I’m not confident,” Shiro says. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Before you met me, hell, even when you first met me, I was a complete mess. I basically torched my life and came back here to try to figure myself out again, and then I met you and—” He runs his hand through his hair. “I barely even know how to tell my own story to myself. I can’t tell it to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. And now everyone’s going to have all these expectations.”

Keith’s heart sinks. “Shiro—”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Shiro says. “Or was I supposed to find out when I showed up? I only saw this because my brother has an alert out on my name.”

“I was,” Keith says. “I was going to tell you, after you’d finished your piece. I just—I knew you weren’t sure already, and I didn’t want to make you more stressed, so…”

The silence hangs in the air between them, thick and cloying and nothing like the comfortable silence that stretched between them in Shiro’s living room, just yesterday.

“I can tell you need someone,” Shiro says finally. “I don’t want to leave you in a tough spot, but I just—I need time to reconsider all of this, okay? I just wish you’d told me earlier. It’s one thing to join a student showcase. It’s another if I’m supposed to be the star of this whole thing.”

“I understand,” Keith says, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. “Just… let me know, whatever you’re thinking. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you everything to start.”

“I understand why you did it,” Shiro says, and his voice is weary but kind. “I appreciate the apology, and your explanation. I just need to think through things. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Keith says. “Whatever you need. I’m really sorry.”

Shiro doesn’t touch him before he leaves.

Somehow, that’s the worst part.

* * *

The waiting is torture.

There’s nothing from Shiro that first night, which Keith should have expected, but he waited anxiously by his phone anyway. There’s nothing the next day, either, but Kosmo seems cheerfully walked when Keith gets back home, so Shiro must still be coming by.

But then it’s Wednesday evening, and Shiro isn’t in class. Keith’s heart sinks.

He’d thought that, even with everything else going wrong, this could still be a safe place to them.

The silence feels especially loud after the rest of the students leave that night, the steady stream of water and the clanging of brushes in the sink only serving to remind him of the sounds that are missing.

He finishes cleaning in half the time it usually takes. He hadn’t realized how much he slowed down, working through the tasks with extra care since every extra minute polishing tables and putting supplies away was an extra minute to spend with Shiro.

By the time he gets home that night, he knows what he has to do.

Pushing Shiro into this was a mistake. Keith knows better than anyone the reservations Shiro has about it—he has the same reservations himself. He knows about the stress, the doubt, the distaste.

And he’d thrown Shiro headfirst into it all.

After a fair amount of groaning, faceplanting onto the couch, and faceplanting into Kosmo’s fur, Keith finally wrestles out his phone, takes a deep breath, fists his hand into Kosmo’s fur to ground himself, and calls Shiro.

After an eternity of ringing, it goes to voicemail.

“Shit,” Keith mumbles, putting his phone down.

This is all his fault. The one good thing in his life and he has to fuck it up like this. He shoves his face into Kosmo’s fur again. He can’t fix this, but he can try to reverse the damage as much as possible.

First, text Shiro.

He composes and recomposes the message a dozen times before he finally sends a brief text explaining he’ll withdraw Shiro from the university gallery so he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore, and that he doesn’t have to come for Kosmo anymore, either. Keith’s already paid him for the month, and he sends over payment for the next month, too, since he usually gives his walkers thirty days notice.

And then he scrolls to the contact he’s been trying to avoid bothering, bites his lip, and presses the call button again.

It rings once, then twice, before someone picks up.

“Hi honey,” a warm voice says, and Keith suddenly forgets why he waited so long to call in the first place.

“Mom,” he says, voice cracking as his eyes well with tears. “Mom, I messed up. I really messed up.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You look tired,” is the first thing Kolivan says once he opens the door and sees Keith.

Kosmo greets him with a bright bark and then tears past him into the house. Neither of them do a thing to stop him.

“Hi, Kolivan,” Keith says, walking past him into the house and unbuckling the chest strap on his backpack. “I’m fine.”

Kolivan shuts the door. “Ulaz, bring the thermometer!”

“I don’t need the thermometer,” Keith says, but Ulaz is already emerging from the house, thermometer in hand. Keith weakly tries to ward him off, but he can’t actually push Ulaz away. “Ulaz, I’m fine.”

“Then there’s no problem with taking a second here, is there?” Ulaz holds up the thermometer by Keith’s forehead and presses a button. It beeps alarmingly. Ulaz frowns. “A bit warm.”

“I’m just dehydrated,” Keith says. “I was driving.”

Kolivan’s frown deepens, and Keith regrets saying even that much. Kolivan bellows into the house, “Bring the water!”

On cue, Thace approaches the entryway with a glass of water. “Krolia said you weren’t feeling well.”

Ugh, he’d told his mom not to tell the rest of the collective. He knew they’d be like this.

“We made you soup,” Thace says, which relieves some of Keith’s grumpiness a bit, because Thace does make good soup. He puts an arm around Keith’s shoulders and leads him further into the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kolivan pick up his backpack, probably to take it to a guest room.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She came in from the studio not so long ago and went to wash up,” Thace says, pushing him into a chair at the dining table. “She should be down soon.”

Ulaz sets a glass of coconut water in front of him, and takes the glass of water from Thace that he still had in his hand. “For your blood sugar.”

“My blood sugar’s fine,” Keith says, but he drinks it anyway.

“We tried to call you on your way,” Ulaz says. “We were getting worried.”

“I, uh, I turned off my phone.” Keith looks at the glass. “Sorry.”

Shiro hadn’t answered by the time Keith went to bed that night, and Keith didn’t want to know if he ever would. After getting his mom’s confirmation that she’d be able to accommodate the gallery in her schedule, he’d forwarded her information to Lance along with a brief apology for the last-minute change, and then promptly turned off his phone. He’s still checking his school email in case anything comes up, so if it’s really important, Lance can still contact him through there. But, for his own sake, the phone is staying off.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Ulaz says, gently.

The rest of the Marmora art collective are in various states of business around them: Thace is at the counter, preparing a turkey; Antok is doing a crossword puzzle at the other end of the table; Kolivan, returned from putting Keith’s backpack away in the guest room, is dusting the top of the fridge. All of them, he can tell, have an ear turned for his answer.

He shrugs, with forced casualness. “Not much going on.”

“I see, you’ve only turned your phone off all day and night because there is absolutely nothing happening,” Ulaz says. “Perfectly reasonable.”

As comforting as the Marmora are, they are also extremely nosy. And sassy. Keith did not miss this part.

“It’s just, you know,” Keith says, and when it’s clear that they’re not taking it for an answer, he tries to think of something else to throw them off the trail.

“Boy problems,” his mom says, and Keith turns to see her standing behind him with damp hair and wearing sweats. He hasn’t seen her in almost a year, but she looks the same as he remembers.

Actually, he’s pretty sure she hasn’t aged since he was born.

“You remember all about that, don’t you?” she says to the room at large.

“Indeed,” Ulaz says with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Kolivan has stopped pretending to dust the fridge.

Keith groans. “Did you really have to tell them that?”

“You know them, they won’t stop bugging you otherwise,” his mom says, patting him on the back. “At least now they know not to ask any questions. Don’t want to set off the waterworks, right?”

There are varying murmurs of assent. Kolivan grunts.

“There weren’t going to be waterworks,” Keith says.

His mom pats his back again. “C’mon, let’s not leave Thace to make dinner all by himself.”

* * *

Thace keeps everyone busy enough working on the meal that, thankfully, no one has time to waste grilling Keith. Instead, there’s a steady background hum of instructions and warnings and everyone getting distracted by Thace sous viding the turkey instead of putting it in the oven.

(“I wanted to abolish our practice of eating this abominably dry bird, but Thace assured me it would taste better coming out of a bag,” Kolivan tells Keith.

“That is a gross oversimplification of sous vide,” Thace says.)

Over dinner, they tell Keith about their newest project: the community gardens. The city, apparently, wants to create a new one that’s more integrated with the parks, to encourage more people to participate. The Marmora will be working with the city’s landscapers and architects to create a number of pieces for it—murals, signs, planters, sculptures.

Keith’s mood picks up just from hearing how excited they all are about it—how excited his mom is about it.

She fell into the group by chance: She was a volunteer helping to design a community mural project downtown, and Kolivan was in the same building discussing a new metal sculpture project for the plaza. He happened to see her work on the mural, asked to see more of it… and then the rest was history.

He only wishes his dad could have been here to see it.

“Keith,” Kolivan says seriously, hands folded under his chin, “about—”

“Your classes,” Antok cuts in, looking directly at Keith. “How are they?”

“They’re good,” Keith says, eyes darting between Kolivan and Antok. Kolivan, frowning, cuts into his turkey. “I don’t know if Mom told you, but my community center students are going to do a showcase in January, if you’re interested.”

“Of course,” Ulaz says. “Send along the dates and we’ll see if we can make it. You know, that reminds me, it’s not finalized yet, but Thace has received some information about a potential project at the community center next spring. Thace, would you—”

Keith looks at Kolivan again as Thace picks up the thread of conversation. Kolivan raises an eyebrow back.

Yeah, the conversation definitely isn’t over.

Keith is wary of being cornered after dinner, but once the plates are cleared, Thace immediately pulls Kolivan into the kitchen for dish duty, since he “contributed the least to the cooking tonight.”

He hides over by the fireplace, and, a little while later, it’s his mom who corners him instead.

She drops a blanket over his shoulders. “He means well.”

“I know,” Keith says. “I just don’t know what I’d even say about it. It’s over.”

“Did he say it was over?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Keith says. “I’m translating.”

“Do you usually have to translate like that, when it comes to him?”

Keith hesitates. “Not… usually.”

“Then have hope,” his mom says. “You made a mistake, but it isn’t unforgivable.”

“He was my friend,” Keith says, “and I made him feel like I cared about the gallery more than I cared about him. I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk to me again.”

“When did my son become so dramatic?” his mom says, smiling at him. “We all make mistakes, Keith, even with people we love. Or, especially, I should say. What you did… it wasn’t honest, but it wasn’t malicious, either. I know he’ll understand that.”

“I want to believe that,” Keith says, because he does. He really does. “It’s just… hard, waiting for a message or a call or anything. Or sitting at home, waiting for him to come when I know he doesn’t have any reason to.”

“Then why not go to him?” Kolivan says, and Keith turns to see him standing in the doorway, watching them. “It sounds like you’re the one who has the explaining to do.”

“What if he doesn’t want to listen?”

“I don’t know this man,” Kolivan says, “but you do. Would he turn you away if you went to him earnestly?”

Shiro wouldn’t, he knows. But just because he wouldn’t turn him away doesn’t mean he’d welcome it. “If he needs space, I want him to have it.”

“From what you’ve said, he’s under the impression you don’t value the relationship,” Kolivan says. “What he needs is to understand that you do.”

Keith rubs his fingers together and stares at the flickering flames. “Do you think that will help?”

The silence lasts a little too long. Keith looks over to see Kolivan exchanging a look with his mom. When he catches Keith looking, Kolivan walks over and squeezes his shoulder.

“Rest well tonight,” Kolivan says. “We leave in the morning.”

* * *

It’s almost noon by the time Keith makes it into the city, heart pounding with adrenaline. He’s glad he didn’t drive, though he feels awful for making Antok make the four-hour round trip with him.

Kolivan had been called in to a last-meeting minute he couldn’t escape from, so he couldn’t take Keith himself as he’d planned. But Keith can’t complain. The nice thing about having Antok as his company is that, compared to the rest of the group, he’s better at keeping his nosiness inside, which means Keith has time to panic silently the entire trip.

Maybe that last part isn’t a good thing,

He’s spent the whole time trying to figure out what exactly he wants to say to Shiro, and how. He’s already apologized, but he knows he has to do it again, clearly, so Shiro knows that their friendship, that everything that’s happened since he joined the gallery has nothing to do with the gallery itself and everything to do with them.

There’s so much—so much that he wants to say that it’s a jumble in his head, with no good way of explaining it all in a coherent set of sentences.

Keith groans and thuds his head against the window.

“I doubt what you need right now is further brain damage,” Antok says dryly.

“Very helpful,” Keith says into the side of the door.

“I could be more helpful,” Antok says, “but I believe that would require me to know what’s going on in the first place.”

“Kolivan didn’t tell you?”

“Kolivan gave me the address and told me to drive.” Antok pauses. “Where are we going, anyway? The address isn’t your house.”

Everyone’s communication skills, Keith decides, sucks. “We’re going to Shiro’s house.”

“Shiro is your boy problem,” Antok says.

“Yep.” Keith stares out the window.

“And you’re going there to…?”

“Apologize,” Keith says. “Again. And grovel. A lot.”

“I typically find flowers helpful for groveling,” Antok says.

And so it is that Keith finds himself walking up the steps to Shiro’s apartment with a small bouquet of red roses. Across the street, Antok gives him a thumbs up from the car.

Keith rehearses in his head what he’s going to say when he gets to the call box. Starting with “hey, it’s Keith” feels like the obvious choice, but it also feels like the obvious way to get hung up on immediately. And that’s assuming Shiro wouldn’t recognize his voice and immediately hang up anyway.

He’s just put his foot on the top step when, miraculously, the door swings open, a tenant on their way out. He ducks his head in thanks and walks through, then heads up the stairs on the right to Shiro’s apartment.

Then he takes a deep breath in front of Shiro’s door, and knocks.

Shiro doesn’t come to the door immediately this time.

In fact, Shiro doesn’t come to the door at all.

Keith fidgets in front of the door and tries to estimate a reasonable time for when a reasonable person would give up on waiting for the closed door to open.

 _One Mississippi, two Mississippi_ …

Maybe he should knock again.

But probably he should just leave.

He knocks again.

Just in case Shiro didn’t hear it the first time, he tells himself. But that was the last try. If Shiro doesn’t open the door, then that’s it.

 _One Mississippi, two Mississippi_ …

He fidgets on the doorstep. Waits a little longer.

And then he gives in.

Shiro’s not coming.

He drags his feet away from the doorstep, and back down the hall. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain to Antok that they came all this way for nothing, but at least Antok won’t ask for more detail than he’s willing to give. The most he’ll push is probably buying him a hot chocolate on the way back as comfort.

Behind Keith, a deadbolt turns and a door scrapes open. “Keith?”

Keith freezes in his steps. It feels like a dream. He turns. Shiro is standing, half in and half out of his apartment, looking at him. Keith opens his mouth, but sound doesn’t come out.

Shiro’s gaze seems to soften, but Keith can hardly believe it. “Hey.”

“Shiro,” Keith finally gets out. He turns and walks back, one step, two, and then he’s in front of Shiro again. He has so much to say but he can’t form a single sentence. Instead, he thrusts the bouquet toward Shiro, flower stems slightly crushed from how tightly he was squeezing them together.

Shiro takes them, face expressionless. Then, without saying a word, he opens his arms.

Keith falls into them gratefully, squeezing Shiro tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t reply to my messages,” Shiro says, though he doesn’t sound angry about it. He doesn’t sound anything at all, voice carefully mild.

“My phone’s off, I haven’t seen them,” Keith says, chastened, as he leans back from the hold. He probably should have checked to see if any messages came through from Shiro before turning up here. It’s too late now. “I was worried that… I was worried.”

Shiro catches his hand and squeezes. “It’s okay. Well, I mean, it’s… I won’t lie to you. I really wasn’t happy when I found out. That was a big deal, Keith.”

“I know,” Keith says. His heart sinks, but he’d prepared for this. He already knew that Shiro was upset, and they’d have to work through that if they wanted to work through anything. “I’m really sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to lie about it, but I… I didn’t mention it because I knew you would say no if you knew, and I know that’s a shitty reason.”

“Why’d you want me to say yes so badly?” Shiro says, leaning back against the door and cradling the bouquet in his hands. “Lance messaged me to double-check about the program change. Sounds like it didn’t take long for you to find a real pro.”

“It’s a bad reason,” Keith says.

“It was important to you.”

Through all this, Shiro is still so gentle, and it weakens Keith’s defenses. “She’s my mom. Krolia, I mean.”

Shiro’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I don’t like people knowing because of the whole—the knowing people who know people thing,” Keith says. “People suddenly want to be friends with me who never cared otherwise. Bringing her in for this, it would give it away like that to everyone at the university, so I didn’t want to do it unless I had to.”

“And I was your way out,” Shiro says, and his voice has an edge to it that Keith doesn’t like.

“It’s not like that,” Keith says, squeezing his hand tightly. “You weren’t just some convenient guy. Everything I said to you, I meant it. You’re amazing, Shiro. Your art is amazing. That’s part of the reason why I came back. I need you to know that, as much as I didn’t want to call my mom, I did want to feature your art in the gallery. I didn’t know anything about you except what you shared with me and class, and what I could see from your art. And your art—it touches people. It touched me. That’s the most important part. And artists—when we see something amazing, we don’t want to keep it hidden. We want to show it to the world, so that other people can feel the same things we did. I went about it all wrong, but you have a story that’s worth sharing, and I meant it when I said I wanted to help you share it.”

Keith realizes he’s been rambling and stops. “Yeah. That’s, um. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry I lied to you, and I hope this hasn’t made you stop painting. That’d be a loss to more than just me.”

“You really mean that,” Shiro says softly.

Keith looks at him, trying to put all the sincerity he has into his eyes and his words. “I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

Shiro studies him for a moment, then looks down toward the flowers in his hand.

His expression is contemplative, not questioning, but Keith feels the need to explain anyway. “I was told it helps with apologies. Sincere apologies. Sometimes.”

Shiro spends a long, quiet moment tracing his finger along the delicate edge of a petal. Then he looks up at Keith. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Keith says.

“I believe you,” Shiro says. “And… I know I was the one who pushed you away first, but. I missed you.”

“Me too,” Keith says, and he sways and falls into Shiro’s arms again. It’s all he can do to keep from sobbing in relief.

Shiro’s arms come around him again, holding him tight, and they stand there for what feels like a blessed eternity.

Eventually, Shiro steps back, hand sliding down to take Keith’s. “Come inside for a minute,” he says. “There’s something I want you to see.”


	6. Epilogue

“It's interesting,” Keith’s mom says, walking up beside the bench where he’s taking a break from the crowd, “to see you through the eyes of someone else who loves you.”

Keith feels himself turning red. “Mom…”

“I offered to buy it, but he turned me down,” she says. “Politely, of course.”

“Mom!”

She laughs and sits on the bench next to him. “It's a beautiful work, is what I'm saying. He must really care for you.”

Keith ducks his head to hide his smile. “Did you know he’d decided to stay on?”

“I knew he hadn’t decided either way,” Krolia says. “But I was sure your chances were better than you thought. I’m glad things turned out well. He’s a good man. Kind. Honest. He’s good for you, I think.”

“You got all that from a painting?”

“I’m skilled in my trade, I’ll have you know,” Krolia says, then smirks. “But, no. He recognized me. We spoke.”

“What?” Keith sits up straight. “You did? Just now? What did you talk about?”

Instead of answering, Krolia stands. “Oh, it looks like your friend wants to talk to you. I should leave you to it.”

Keith turns toward the hall to the gallery, Shiro’s name on his lips.

It’s Lance coming toward him instead.

And his mom is already halfway down the hall.

“There’s my main man!” Lance says, his arms open wide. “What are you doing hiding out here?”

“Just taking a break.” Keith nods toward the gallery. “Nice job putting everything together. It looks good.”

Lance preens. “Yeah? I mean, yeah, I had to change a lot of stuff to make it work for the new space, but I think it all came together pretty well. Right?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “There’s no way they’ll pass you up.”

“Thanks, man,” Lance says, hugging him. “I couldn’t have done it without you. I can make sure to put in a good word for you—”

“No,” Keith says. “Thanks. The less anyone thinks I was involved, the better.”

Lance shrugs. “Well, if you say so.” He fidgets. “Look, uh. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I know something went on near the end there with you and Shiro, with the whole you telling me he was withdrawing thing and then the him showing up with a giant painting of you thing—“

Does Keith really have to blush every time the painting comes up? “Can you get to the point?”

“I just wanted to say, sorry if I caused any trouble for you,” Lance says. “You did so much for me and I didn’t even know how much Shiro meant to you! And after I almost caused your breakup you still found Krolia for me which I don’t even know how you got in touch with her! Also—” he lowers his voice to a loud whisper, “—was that her just now?”

“Yes,” Keith says, and leaves it at that. “And don’t worry about it, all the stuff that happened was my fault. Also, there wasn’t anything to break up. So you’re fine.”

“Not anything to break up?” Lance repeats. “Dude, have you seen the painting hanging in there?”

“I gotta go,” Keith says, spinning on his heel.

This time he ends up staring right at Shiro, who smiles and tilts his head. “Not going too far, I hope?”

Keith stares.

“Aaaand that’s my cue to go,” Lance says. Keith isn’t paying enough attention to know whether he actually leaves or not.

Shiro’s wearing a dark black-green suit with a black tie and a little black pocket square. Keith’s seen him all night from across the room, but up close he can see the way everything is beautifully, perfectly fitted to every line of Shiro’s body. His fingers itch to memorialize it in pencil and ink.

But first, he needs to stop feeling light-headed.

“You look good up close.” Wait, Keith, not the right words to say. “I mean, in general, too.”

Better, maybe.

“You look good in general, too,” Shiro says, smiling as he steps closer. He holds his hands out to Keith. “How’s it going?”

“I should be asking you that,” Keith says, taking them and squeezing. “Man of the hour.”

“Don’t remind me,” Shiro says. “It’s going all right. Though I am being pestered by a lot of people who want me to call them later for this or that. I seem to remember you promising me to chase them off for me.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Keith says. “Thanks for doing this, by the way. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Shiro says. “I think you were right.”

“About what?”

“You said that, as an artist, when you see something amazing, you don’t want to keep it to yourself.” Shiro steps closer, putting his hands on Keith’s waist and tilting his head down so their foreheads are almost touching. “You want to share it with the world. That’s how I felt, when I finished the painting. I painted it for you, to show you how I felt. But, after? I wanted to show it off. I wanted everyone else to know that I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Keith is blushing so hard he thinks he might actually faint. He holds onto Shiro’s waist for dear life. “Shiro, I…”

“You don’t have to respond,” Shiro says, smiling wide enough his cheek dimples. “You and compliments, I know. But I just wanted you to know the reason.”

Shiro is close, so close, and Keith feels an urgent need to get closer, to touch him, to—

“I—” Keith steps closer, even though there isn’t much space to step between them anymore. “I really want to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Shiro’s hand comes up, cupping Keith’s cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And this—

This feels perfect, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Do you think you know who wrote this fic? You can [submit your guesses here](https://airtable.com/shrKHElnZWvgej3tS) for this fic and all the other fics posted to the [Sheithmark collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/sheithmark) before reveals!


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